


Not Her

by ncfan



Series: Femslash February [30]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Femslash February, Femslash February 2019, G-rated by TMA standards, Gen, Mentions of homophobia, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 22:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17876360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: Later on, Jude wouldn’t remember Gretchen as having been any sort of great passion in her life. Perhaps she never had been. Perhaps her god and her sweet Agnes had simply seared it all away.





	Not Her

Later on, Jude wouldn’t remember Gretchen as having been any sort of great passion in her life. Perhaps she never had been to begin with—if she had been, if Jude’s feelings for her rose over lukewarmth to heat, she wouldn’t have left Gretchen to live her life in relative peace—and it had just been Jude’s need for a warm body next to hers at night that had directed her to Gretchen, and kept her at Gretchen’s side for so long. That was entirely possible. It was possible, also, that her god and her sweet Agnes had scorched memory too completely for Jude to see the past clearly. That was also possible.

“Scented candles?”

Jude spotted, a swish in the corner of her eye, Gretchen’s fall of ash blonde hair, a moment before she spotted the rest of her, emerging from the shadowed back of their shared home. She tipped her head to press an absent kiss to Gretchen’s cheek, letting the bag slide out of her arms onto the kitchen counter. The candles within hit the granite with a clink that made Jude wince, but there was no crack or tinkle of breaking glass, so the tension left her a moment later.

“I found some scents I liked,” Jude explained. “They’re nice.”

Gretchen frowned, her supple, bow-shaped mouth twisting (Though not as much as it could have if it was wax). “I thought you said the smell of melting candle wax made you queasy. What’s changed?”

Discovering how utterly glorious the smell of burning things could be. “These are different. Something about the wax.” They weren’t different, and Jude’s stomach dropped as the wick began to burn, but that smell of the match burning, she was happy to focus on that. There was a scent she’d chase to the end of her days. It didn’t smell like Agnes, but it was close. “How was work?”

Gretchen rolled her gray eyes—a cold, wintry color that Jude had lately been searching for searing steel within. “It was story day for the little brats from the nursery school.”

“Are we still not fond of little brats?” Jude asked, sing-song and snickering as she began rooting through the refrigerator for takeaway still fit to eat.

“Their teacher isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. I started reading _The Witches_ to the students, and she didn’t bat an eye.”

“I don’t know that one.”

There came a look flitting over Gretchen’s face that Jude couldn’t mistake for disappointment. “Ah, well,” she muttered. “The joke only lands if you know what the book is about.” Recovering, she asked, “Did you have a good day at work?”

“Oh, it was fine.” The Chinese takeaway smelled as if it was starting to turn. The Moroccan seemed alright—or at least, it had better, considering it had been fresh only the night before. “A little boring, but at least we didn’t have the police around again.”

“They still haven’t found that man’s—oh, what was his name?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” His name was nothing. All he was now was a vehicle to bring a message to the living. His name was absolutely nothing.

“They haven’t found him, then?”

“Hmm, no.” And Jude was getting impatient, she didn’t mind saying.

As Jude chewed on cold lamb, as she tried and failed to find it in her to take her plate to the microwave and cook her cold takeaway until it was piping hot, she eyed Gretchen, sitting at the chair opposite her and picking unenthusiastically at slightly wilted salad greens. They had barely any of their light son, and in the soft, diffused glow of golden sunset, Gretchen, pale Gretchen, all milk and ash and white gold, looked hazy. Like that special effect they used in films, shooting the female lead in soft focus to make her look fuzzy and indistinct and somehow more beautiful than she would have been when properly in focus.

Jude looked at her. And looked. It was an old habit, though lately the character of it found itself somewhat altered.

Jude could never include herself when her married coworkers talked about family life—not that she often wanted to—good _God_ , but it was dull—but the manner by which she was barred from the discussions had always galled. She didn’t mention Gretchen at work if she didn’t have to—it was just safer, that way—and those who knew about her know only that she was Jude’s housemate.

Actually, Jude had gotten a reputation for cheapness, thanks to that little deception. Imagine, still having a housemate when you’re making _that_ kind of money. And the housemate’s a _librarian_ , too; how can she be expected to pay her share of the bills without being bled dry?

Once upon a time, Jude had itched, itched, itched to tell them the truth, while living in terror of the consequences if they ever found out. It would have been utterly ruinous, would have spelled the destruction of her career, not just at her workplace but in her entire industry. It would have been jobs in retail and behind filling station cash registers for her, and nothing else. She knew that. And yet, she’d still itched to tell them, just to see the looks on their dull, blinkered faces.

And once upon a time, Jude thought later, when she held Gretchen in her arms, she thought only of Gretchen. But she was, it was their two bodies tangled together in bed, and Jude was tracing hints of red in Gretchen’s hair, and thinking of how she would burn the whole world down with a smile on her face, if it would make her worthy of kissing Agnes Montague’s dainty foot.


End file.
